There is a chitter, and here she does not hide it, here in her private chambers. It is easy to see the fangs that sit at the front of her mouth. Clicking in appreciation that undertones words. Perhaps not as easily understood to a human ear or a human body, but it inflects to each of her spoken words. A faint clatter.

"So we do - and Commander Grothia did not inform me we would speak with a king."

It is wine given, assuming less of a taste for flesh like the Aranean's preferred. But it is a rich colour, full of the scent of fruit and alcohol. The tinge of something not quite natural to it, even now. Magic was something consumed after all. "But no matter, here. We are ourselves."